


Because You're Here

by Spikedluv



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos and Duncan aren’t talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because You're Here

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the Picture Challenge on Highlandgirl to write a fic based on the manipulated picture ‘The Dojo’ by Jubie.
> 
> Thanks: Tammy, my wonderful and lovely beta. She's a gem among, uh, other shiny stuff.
> 
> Written: September 22, 2003

Methos and Duncan weren’t talking. Methos wasn’t sure exactly what he had said to bring on the silent treatment. He thought for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration, hazel eyes narrowed. Duncan had been saying something about getting away for a weekend, and Methos had looked up from the book he’d been reading, made a sarcastic comment about the damp cold of Seacouver, and placed his vote for a trip to the Bahamas, one that preferably lasted about 6 months. There might have been something about a witch’s tit in there, too.

Though it hadn’t seemed a bit different from any of his usual complaints - no more cutting than usual - it had obviously had an unforeseen impact on Duncan. The man had pressed his lips together in an obvious attempt to keep from making a sharp retort, and then turned his back on Methos.

“Fine,” he said shortly, biting off the word. He moved to his desk, sat down, and pulled out his checkbook and the stack of unpaid bills with stiff, jerky movements, despite the fact that this was not his usual day for bill-paying. In the stultifying silence of the loft, the scratch of the pen, the crinkle of paper being folded, and the licking of stamps and envelopes seemed unbelievably loud.

Once done, he strode deliberately to the kitchen area of the loft, his eyes not once drifting towards Methos - who still lay sprawled on the couch, though his attention was equally divided between the book he had been absorbed in before his most recent snafu and the silent Highlander - and lifted the cover of the pot sitting on the stove to sniff the soup simmering within. Methos watched him take a taste of the soup, tilt his head in contemplation, and then pull a small jar out of the cupboard beside the stove and shake it over the pot once, then again.

With the cover back on the pot, and seemingly satisfied with his culinary achievement, Duncan turned the oven on to bake the loaf of bread that had been rising inside it. His movements controlled, his body inflexible, Duncan walked over to the lift. Without a word to Methos, he raised the gate and stepped into the lift, lowered the gate with not a smidgeon of extra force, and then pressed the button that would take the lift to the dojo below.

Without being obvious, Methos watched Duncan descend until he could no longer see him, and then continued to stare at the cable. He strained his ears, but could only hear the gears of the lift and the ‘clank’ when it stopped. He imagined the dulcet tones of Duncan’s low, deep voice as he greeted the clients using the dojo late on a Sunday afternoon, and felt bereft as the tingle of the other Immortal’s buzz abandoned him.

Methos tried to resume his careless, relaxed sprawl, but found himself wondering what Duncan was doing down in the dojo. He had hired help to manage the dojo so he could have some time off, and so there wouldn’t be much to keep him busy. With a deep sigh, Methos closed his book and carefully placed it on the coffee table. It was an original manuscript that had to be handled with care. More care than he handled his lover with, apparently.

He meandered around the loft, slowly making his way towards the kitchen where the scent of the soup, which was permeating the entire loft, was strongest. Homemade soup. Homemade soup that Duncan was making because he, Methos, had asked him to. Without argument or complaint. Methos lifted the cover and sniffed. It smelled delicious. So did the homemade bread as it baked in the oven.

Continuing his aimless walking, Methos ended up at the desk, which had been his objective all along. The top of the desk was neat, a pile of bills to be posted on one back corner, the telephone and answering machine along with a pen and pad for messages on the other. A blotter in the middle held the color brochures that Duncan had been holding in his hands when he broached the subject of getting away.

Blue ocean water, white sandy beaches, and swaying palm trees graced the covers. A lovely script spelled ‘Hawaii’ across the pictures. Methos’ hand shook as he reached for the pamphlets and opened them. Duncan had already been planning on taking him somewhere warm. His eyes burned with unshed tears as he recalled his snarky response and his lover’s reaction. Duncan was not angry - because Methos had seen him angry and knew well how it looked on him - but he was hurt.

Dropping the brochures back onto the desk, Methos swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand as he executed a fast-paced walk to the stairs - having no intention of waiting for the lift to make it back up to the loft - and taking them two at a time. When he emerged into the dojo, the clanking of the weights, the soft chatter of the patrons, and the low beat of ‘mood music’ filled the air. He looked around for Duncan, finally finding him in the glassed-in office, sitting on a corner of the desk and speaking with his manager.

Duncan glanced up at him, and then slowly slid his gaze away. He brought his conversation to an end with a forced smile, slipped off the desk and straightened, then exited the office. He moved to the back of the dojo where they could have some privacy, and Methos followed him. Duncan stopped in front of the punching bag and placed his hand upon it as if to steady himself.

Methos stepped up behind him and rested his hands on the other man’s rigid shoulders. Duncan shivered at his touch. He squeezed his fingers, and lowered his forehead to briefly rest it against Duncan’s neck. He lifted his head and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Methos hoped Duncan could feel the sincerity of it. “I’m so sorry.” He let his arms circle Duncan’s unyielding frame.

“If you hate it here so much...,” Duncan began, stopping to bring his emotions back under control. “Then why do you stay?”

“Because you’re here,” Methos replied softly, and then gently kissed his neck.

The End


End file.
